The Pajama Game
by alittlebreathlessness
Summary: The journey of a certain pajama top, which finds its way into Shelagh's possession before she and Patrick are married. Began as a Tumblr drawing/ficlet on my blog (sincerelyrobink) and spiraled deliciously out of control. A series of sloppy romantic nothingness.
1. Part 1

He didn't know what to do with his hands. He didn't know what to do at all, if he was completely honest.

The last thing Patrick had expected to find on the other side of his front door in the middle of the December night was his fiancé carrying a large pink box and talking about a bomb. He'd been in bed but Shelagh hadn't woken him; it was difficult to sleep these days with wedding preparations and anticipations crowding his consciousness. The knock at the door of the Turner house and subsequent ushering in from the cold had been a pleasant surprise and distraction. Woken from the unusual ruckus, Timothy had joined them in the sitting room and it had been he who brought up the challenge of Shelagh sleeping in her tweed suit before Patrick offered her the top half of his pajamas and the use of the upstairs bathroom to change. She had followed Timothy up the stairs after Patrick told him where to find his pajamas in the wardrobe and set himself to making tea in the kitchen. He was glad for the separation, knowing being close to Shelagh on her first journey to the second floor might make her nervous.

Patrick had tried not to be anxious himself, but he jumped and clattered the cups and saucers he was attempting to clean when he heard them come down the hall. Pasting an easy grin on his face, Patrick turned to greet Shelagh and only saw his son.

"Where's Auntie Shelagh?" He frowned and his shoulders fell in disappointment.

Timothy gestured toward the stairs behind him. "She's upstairs. I thought I'd come see if you needed help. You're rubbish at kitchen things."

"Tim, you can't just leave her up there! She doesn't know her way around. Here, you finish the tea and I'll see to her…" He pushed past his son and took the stairs two at a time.

Minutes later, he stood tense outside the door. His hands flexed and curled into fists from nervous lack of occupation.

Right now Shelagh was beyond the washroom door shedding her dress, perhaps even taking down her hair. The thought of this made Patrick close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. Stop. She would be coming out of that door in the pajama shirt he lent her for the evening, and he would be a gentleman and offer her his bed.

Patrick felt his face and ears burn. Coupled with the thought of her hair unpinned and draped over his own pajamas, imagining Shelagh in his bed might completely undo him. He rapidly blinked away the thoughts and turned from the bathroom door toward the stairs to remove himself from the situation. Surely she would be able to find her own way downstairs without his help. As he took the first step down he heard the click of the door behind him and was unable to stop himself from looking in its direction.

All of his humanly strength was needed to swallow the groan that was rising in his throat.

Shelagh tiptoed from the room and looked in the opposite direction so that Patrick caught a full view of her hair - unpinned as he had feared - dance over her shoulders. Her shoes dangled from her fingertips and her dress was held in the other hand. He caught his breath at the shine of her slip and the stockings floating at her side tangled with the dress she held. He tried to banish the realization that Timothy had given her the top of the pajamas he had purchased for two nights from now, their wedding night.

"Timothy?" Shelagh whispered down the hall away from where he stood.

Patrick cleared his throat and she turned to face him. A bashful smile turned into a grin before she looked at the floor. "It's a bit large," she said with a shrug. The shirt engulfed her, the shoulders falling beyond hers and the long sleeves hiding her hands. "I'm sure my arms are in here somewhere." Her laughter was nervous; Patrick realized she was trying to ease the awkwardness of the moment.

In the brief quiet following he could see in her face that she was thinking the same thing he was: that in two days she might be in a similar state of undress in this very corridor, hair lit only by the light from another room and footsteps away from the door to the bedroom that would be theirs together. There was silence while each of their thoughts went down the same path until Patrick took a tentative step toward her.

"Would you like me to help you with…?" He gestured toward her hands or her arms or her body, not knowing to what he was exactly referring.

Shelagh caught on, as she usually did. Lifting one arm, she let out a whispered laugh. "Could you roll the sleeves for me?"

His relieved crooked smile was enough answer for her to settle into another wide grin. She set her clothes and shoes on the floor and raised a wrist in his direction.

Patrick stepped to her, took the cuff and began to roll it. He tried not to dwell on the smoothness of her wrist on his knuckles or the way the hairs on her arm stood after his contact. He pretended not to notice when her fingertips danced nervously, or when she touched the scar on her left hand with her middle finger. No, instead he chose to focus on the freckles on the back of her hands and the shine of her engagement ring. He tried to count their breaths to steady himself, but gave up almost immediately.

Slowly he tucked the fabric, moving up her forearm until his thumb stroked the crook of her elbow and she flinched. He let go, but before his hand could retreat to the safety of his side it was met with Shelagh's, half hidden under the yet unrolled other sleeve of his pajama top. She stayed like this, reversing their usual intimacy and holding his hand in hers, feeling the weight of it and the landscape of his knuckles and stroking his palm with her thumb. Neither of them could tear their eyes from their hands, listening to the other's breathing and matching the pattern.

"I'm glad you came…" Patrick mumbled. "I'm glad you felt you could come here tonight."

Shelagh's eyes never left his hand. "Thank you for having me. I'm sorry to be a bother."

"Shelagh." His tone made her look up at him, and even in the dark hall he could feel himself drowning in the blue of her eyes. Oh, how long until she would be his? Two days felt like a lifetime. "Shelagh, this is your home now too. You are never a bother."

She smiled and looked down again. "Even so, it's late…" Her words died as she turned his hand in hers and brought her fingers to trail the lines of his palm. Had any other woman done this to him in a similar state of undress, Patrick would have felt as though he were being seduced. But with Shelagh he felt there was so much more, knowing she was thanking him and learning him and marking him as hers in the only way she knew.

As he watched her watch him, Patrick brought his other hand to her elbow and took a tiny step closer. She dropped his hand as soon as she realized what he was about and stepped into his embrace, resting her head on his sternum and sighing; he felt her breath scald his heart and stoke the fire there. One arm around her shoulders, he closed his eyes and rested his chin on top of her head while her fingers entwined his.

There were no words spoken for several minutes. They savored the moment and the warmth of each other in the relative darkness. Then there was a clatter in the kitchen below bringing them back to the present. As they separated, they each heaved a collective sigh. The last point of contact was Shelagh's fingers holding gently to Patrick's braces; he hadn't realized they were resting there. He glanced down, intending to take her hand in his and kiss it as was his custom.

He stopped when he saw where Shelagh's gaze fell: the partly opened door to the dark bedroom that would be theirs in two days. Trying to detect her emotions, Patrick's eyes traced every line on her face, thrilled to see the slow smile that crossed her lips.

"I can hardly believe we'll be married in two days," she whispered toward the door.

Before he could answer, Shelagh reached for Patrick's hand and slowly lifted it to her lips, kissing the finger of his left hand that would soon be wearing a gold band. His silent smile grew when she looked at him with a grin and returned her favor, kissing the ring that tied her to him before flipping the hand and caressing its palm. When she slid it to his cheek he nuzzled and kissed her wrist. They stood for minutes relishing the contact.

"We should go down," he muttered without taking his eyes from the pale skin of her arm.

"We should." Her own words teetered on the edge of questioning, almost giving him permission to stay in the dark corridor with her skin pressed to his.

When he released her hand Shelagh scooped up her clothes from the floor and followed him past the bedroom, glad he could not see her blush as she caught sight of the unmade bedclothes and the dip in the pillow that had obviously been Patrick's.

Timothy was waiting in the hall downstairs. "You were an awfully long time," he groaned. "I didn't know if you wanted cake with the tea, Dad. If there's going to be a bomb explosion, we might not ever get cake again. Why do you only have one rolled sleeve, Auntie Shelagh?"

Patrick and Shelagh looked down to see the observant child was correct. In all that time upstairs they had only half finished the job she had asked of him. They both grinned foolishly.

Patrick laughed. "Cake is fine, Timothy, go ahead and get some out." When the boy was safely out of earshot he turned to Shelagh and nodded toward her arm. "I will take care of this."

"Thank you. I think we found ourselves quite distracted, didn't we?" She laughed and lifted the arm drowning in his sleeve. "I hope this is not an indication of your inability to complete a task, Dr. Turner."

The glint in her eye was everything – playful, romantic, wicked – and Patrick was struck speechless in her presence. While he rolled her second sleeve, Patrick tried to calm himself again while his mind filled with the warmth of her hand on his face moments ago and the softness of her lips on his fingers.

Yes, two days would be an agonizingly long time to wait.


	2. Part 2

She had not intended to steal it from him, but after the chaos of the two days before Christmas, Patrick's borrowed pajama shirt just seemed to pack itself neatly in Shelagh's dress box. It was a curious discovery when she finally opened the box a week after returning to her lodgings.

She hadn't brought any clothes but the dress she had worn on the first night of the bomb scare, aside from the precious pink box housing her modest wedding dress. No one was certain how long the residents of Poplar would be displaced, and while experienced mothers quickly packed changes of clothes for their families, Shelagh only threw on the dress nearest her bed when the call came to evacuate.

The decision to go to Patrick's house had not been a difficult one, and his warm welcome was a helpful distraction from the nervousness she had felt about possibly being near her former colleagues and sisters in such close quarters. The pajama top was a lovely suggestion, and she wore it for the two nights she stayed on his sofa until Timothy was taken ill. The nights after were spent upright in a hard hospital chair at the boy's bedside. When the bomb had been detonated and residents allowed to go home, Shelagh had still been caught up in the storm of worry over Timothy and foggily stuffed her possessions into the pink dress box without much thought.

"You don't have to go," Patrick had practically begged her from beyond the living room as she prepared to return to the boarding house.

Shelagh had sighed, "I _do_ have to go, Patrick, if for no other reason than I need a change of clothes. I've worn the same dress for three days. And," she turned from her tidying to face him, seeing him standing sheepishly in the doorway, "and you know I shouldn't stay here any longer now that the evacuation is over. It won't do for your reputation to be tainted with any implied indecency on my part."

Patrick had laughed, walking to her and taking her hand in his. "_My_ reputation? What about yours?"

"I think I've shocked Poplar quite enough in the last few months," she chuckled, looking at their hands. Suddenly she looked up at him, her brow knit. "I don't want to leave, Patrick, I really don't. Right now the only thing that keeps me focused is to be near you…"

He lifted her hand to his lips, dropped a kiss on her ring with closed eyes, and whispered through her fingers, "Don't leave. We sould be married by now anyway, and you wouldn't ever have to leave. I wouldn't let you leave."

Sadness and silence had filled the room. How had so much happened in less than forty-eight hours? It seemed like a lifetime ago when she had knocked on his door in the middle of the night. Everything was different except this. Timothy was out of danger but had a long and difficult road ahead of him, and their plans to live together as man and wife had been thwarted. But the certainty of their love, the way it filled them and healed every hurt that could be thrown at them – that certainty was enough for now. It would have to be.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning," Shelagh had whispered as she laid a quick kiss on Patrick's shoulder. She could not bear to look him in the eye, knowing his pleading face would only prompt her to stay longer and she might not be able to resist.

She picked up the pink box and, with a gentle squeeze of Patrick's hand, had walked the streets alone to her temporary home.

Now, a week later, she stood beside her sagging bed with the pink box opened for the first time since everything – the bomb scare, Timothy's sudden illness, the postponement of their wedding – and her breath hitched when she noticed the blue stripes under the sheen of the gray fabric. She hesitated before extracting the wrinkled mess from the box. The sleeves were still rolled – the memory of his knuckles brushing her arms made her smile – and she detected the hazy scent of Patrick's soap and Henleys woven into the fabric.

Would he notice it had gone missing? If he did, she knew he wouldn't ask for it back. Patrick was an intelligent but oftentimes absentminded man; he would rather think he had misplaced the shirt than possibly embarrass Shelagh by asking about it. She ran her fingers over the striped flannel; if everything had gone according to plan, this top would be half hers, or perhaps all hers, thanks to their intended matrimony. Alas, God or fate or the stars had other plans and now she did not know how long she would have to wait to be his wife, to stand beside him and feel his arms around her and the strength of his hands and the warmth of his lips on her skin.

"Shelagh." He could say her name in the most beautiful way, low and long, rolling the last consonants as though they belonged only to his tongue. She had imagined him saying it, repeating it, far more often than she dared admit to herself; the dreamt whispers were mingled with imaginings of another sort entirely, caught somewhere in the realm of passion and intimacy, with blurred hands roaming and heavy breaths and kisses scattered all over her own body.

Shelagh blushed.

Best not to think about the what-might-have-beens. Difficult as it may be to accept, what had happened in the last two weeks had been according to Someone's greater plan. But… there was so much she had wanted to know by now. Not just the physical knowledge of Patrick – though it was difficult to stop herself from daydreaming about the way his hair might fall in the mornings or if he was an early or a late riser – but the lovely moments of family life. What was Timothy like when he woke in the morning, and what did he like for breakfast? Where did they keep their spare linens or serving spoons? Silly questions bombarded her mind constantly, and now the knowledge that she would have to wait an indefinite amount of time until she knew the answers was enough to break her heart again, no matter how patient she intended to be.

She nodded and unrolled the sleeves before carefully folding the shirt. Perhaps she was meant to have it for the time being. Before she tucked it into the drawer of the worn boarding house wardrobe, she raised it to her face and inhaled Patrick's scent one last time.

She would keep it for now, until she could find the right time to give it back.


	3. Part 3

Patrick had smoked far too many cigarettes that evening, sitting alone in the descending dark. He lost count after six; when the empty package deflated in his hand he realized he should probably get up and at least pretend to be busy before Shelagh arrived. He hadn't been able to visit Tim in the hospital tonight due to an ever-increasing stack of patient paperwork that he was slowly defeating. She knew he was buried in work, but it would not do to have her see the house a mess.

Timothy was coming home tomorrow. After a few complicated weeks in hospital he was finally going to be allowed to rest in his own bed. Still without full control of his legs, the boy was downhearted but glad to get out of school and take lessons with Shelagh for a while longer. The doctors predicted he would be able to begin caliper use almost immediately, but it would take time and determination before he could properly walk on his own.

Shelagh was coming by the house after Timothy fell asleep. Patrick smiled at the thought of her insistence at being by his son's side. "He needs to know someone cares. Recuperation can be lonely," she had knowingly said as a way of dismissing his gratitude. Tonight she was bringing all of his things home so they could be laundered and all their focus could be on Timothy's comfort tomorrow.

Rolling his sleeves, Patrick set himself to tidying the kitchen to give Shelagh the impression that he cleaned up after himself when he was alone. She had only stayed in their house for two nights in December, but he and Timothy had been on their best behavior so as not to frighten her off with their slovenly habits.

As he plunged his hands into the soapy water with which he'd filled the basin, he heard the familiar turn of the front door latch and Shelagh's sing-songy "Hello!"

"In here," he called over his shoulder.

He loved the sound of her heels on the floor. He had loved the sound of her walk even when she had worn the nun's habit and did not belong to him. It was one of the first things he tried to banish from his mind before her illness. Her footsteps were short and certain and had a purposeful rhythm, but they carried her quickly to her destination. Patrick could locate Shelagh across any room based entirely on the sound of her footfall; she told him once that she could do the same with his.

Tonight she was quiet, almost tiptoeing into the kitchen behind him. When he turned he saw that she held the bag filled with Timothy's clothes and books and toys. Her quick smile was tight but warm, and she seemed more anxious than usual.

Patrick laughed. "Hello, darling. I'd greet you properly but I'm up to my elbows in dirty water."

She smiled and shook her head. "No need to fret. I'll just pop upstairs and put these things away for Timmy." She turned before he could protest – he always protested – and he heard her heels click up the stairs.

A great deal of time passed before Patrick became concerned about her whereabouts. The dishes were washed and dried, and he had scrubbed all of the kitchen surfaces before realizing he hadn't heard a sound from upstairs for several minutes. Curious, he made a silent ascent in his stocking feet to find his fiancé.

The light from Timothy's room lit the hall. When he entered he had a wide grin on his face, but it fell as he looked around and did not see Shelagh at all. The room seemed tidier than before she came. Patrick had not had the foresight to clean it earlier. Timothy's books and playthings were straightened and placed in neat piles, his bed was made with perfect hospital corners and even the pictures he tacked on the walls seemed straighter. No wonder she had taken so long. But where was she now?

Almost as if the silence was answering his question, Patrick heard a thud from beyond the hall and a quick intake of breath. He followed its direction slowly, trying to imagine why Shelagh would be in his bedroom in the dark. When he pushed open the door, light fell on her and she jumped back from the open wardrobe and let out a little yelp.

"Oh! Patrick! You startled me!" Her hand was splayed over her chest.

"Shelagh, what are you doing in here?" It was not an accusatory question. He was genuinely perplexed; since the night of the bomb threat, Shelagh had only twice ventured to the second floor of the Turner home, and each time was a quick dash to retrieve something Timothy wanted. She'd had no time to linger upstairs, and while he couldn't be completely sure, Patrick doubted she had ever stepped into this room.

She was clearly surprised by his appearance. "Oh, well, I was..." Her words trailed as she wrung her hands, and only then did Patrick notice that she was holding something that looked like an item of clothing, but in the darkness he could not be certain. He flicked on the light switch and she flinched from the sudden brightness. Now he could see perfectly what she was holding.

"Shelagh, what are you doing with that?" Again, he did not accuse her in his tone. He stepped closer, smiling.

She twisted the pajama top in her hands, anxious and embarrassed to be discovered. "Oh, Patrick, I meant to bring it back ages ago, but I forgot. It's the shirt you lent me when..." She did not need to finish. The memory of the bomb scare and everything that happened so soon afterwards was fresh in both of their minds. "I meant to bring it back," she repeated. "I'm sorry I kept it so long. You've probably been without pajamas for three weeks now."

Patrick let out a laugh that eased her worries and said, "Darling, I knew you had it. I saw you take it the night you left."

"You saw – Patrick! Why on Earth didn't you stop me?"

"I thought it was romantic. Perhaps you wanted something to remember me by."

The deep red that rose to Shelagh's cheeks was one Patrick had not yet seen. He was used to her blushing with a shy smile, but this was a flustered, embarrassed blush that went all the way to the tops of her ears. He tried not to laugh, but even red as a tomato she was stunning.

"I didn't mean to take it," she stuttered, still wringing the shirt in her hands and avoiding Patrick's eyes. "And I meant to bring it back. But so much time passed and I needed to wash it because I'd worn it and –"

"You wore it? After you left here?" Patrick's exclamation startled both of them and she finally met his eyes, finding them to be filled with laughter and playfulness. She calmed instantly, but the blush deepened.

"Yes, I wore it," she nodded, eyes once again on the floor, muttering something about the chill in the boarding house.

Patrick did not know what to say. What a surprise Shelagh could be. All these weeks, hurled together because of Timothy's illness but unable to stay together at night as they should, she had been practically wrapped in his arms without his knowledge. The thought excited him, and he stepped closer intending to embrace her, but at that moment Shelagh pushed the pajama top into his arms, creating a barrier between them. He saw her eyes dart toward the door and could feel her tense. With an undetectable gasp he realized it was the first time they were in the bedroom alone together.

"Well, anyway," she whispered as she fidgeted, "You can have it back now. I'm sorry I kept it so long." Shelagh started to walk toward the door, leaving Patrick staring at the shirt and listening to her footsteps slowly echo in the hall. He tossed it onto his bed – thank goodness he had taken the time to make it this morning – and followed her down the stairs. Shelagh was anxious, gazing around the living room for an occupation and finding none. Patrick was used to easing her worries, and when his hands found her shoulders he felt the tenseness in her body slip away.

He lifted her chin – she still wouldn't look at him – and leaned close to her. Her eyes were still lowered, but when he pressed a feather-light kiss to her hairline the blue rose to sweep him into a feeling of adolescent giddiness.

"You, my dear, are a sneak thief." He was glad she smiled, and he raised his eyebrows playfully while his thumb stroked her chin. "You ought to be locked away. Punished till death do you part, or some such thing." He rolled his eyes at his own attempt at a joke, and she chuckled.

"I'd better go. All those wedding preparations to attend to, you know." It was his turn to laugh at her joke now. Their wedding was less than three weeks away and she had planned it with precision, only including him in small decisions. She had told him after New Year's that she felt she had been given another chance to properly plan this wedding and she wanted to surprise him.

"Well, we can't let anything get in the way of your wedding plans. Your fiancé would have my head." He dropped a kiss on her engagement ring and they held hands as they walked to the door.

"Let me walk you home," he pleaded, not wanting to end their brief evening so early.

"No," Shelagh shook her head. "You have too much work to do. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day."

He felt his eyes close and a sigh escape his lips. "I'm so glad he's coming home."

"Me too. I'll see you tomorrow then?"

With one last gentle squeeze he nodded and let go and watched her disappear into the darkness. Resting his head on the door after closing it, Patrick laughed into the silent house at the silliness of the woman he loved, and her foiled attempt to replace the thing she had stolen. He had spoiled her plan, and the thought of that made him a little ashamed.

His eyes snapped open and he turned suddenly, racing up the stairs to his bedroom before running back down again. He hopped from foot to foot as he tried to slip on his shoes, crashing into the walls in his haste. Throwing open the door and not bothering to close it, he walked quickly in the direction of Shelagh's lodgings. She couldn't have gotten far. She had only left the house a few minutes ago. But then he remembered her quick step and sped up himself, trying not to look ridiculous to those he passed on the street. Then he turned a corner and almost plowed her over, his arms fumbling awkwardly around her, trying to steady them as they twirled while people strolled by.

"Patrick!" she cried when she finally caught her breath. "What are you – did you forget something?"

He was breathing heavily himself. "Yes – I – I wanted – I wanted to tell you –" He stopped and allowed himself to inhale a few times before looking at his hands and thrusting them toward Shelagh.

"I don't want this," he finally said.

Shelagh looked down at the striped fabric he had forced into her hands, and a confused smile spread across her lips and her eyebrows knit. "You don't?"

"No."

"But I thought –"

Patrick shook his head and shot her a wicked smile. "No. I don't want it back until you're finished with it. Not until it's the right time."

Her ears and cheeks flushed crimson again, but her smile was magnificent and he laughed. She looked up at him after she had gained the words. "Then I'll just take it home for safe keeping."

"Good."

She regarded him inquisitively, and he could see the playful side of her, the teasing side of her try to break through the surface of her shyness. "How will I know when it's the right time?"

Patrick smiled the crooked smile that he reserved only for her and raised his eyebrows devilishly. "Surprise me."

He had never in his life felt more satisfied than when he saw the startled grin on Shelagh's face and the moonlight dance in her laughing eyes before he turned on his heel and walked back home.


	4. Part 4

The sensation of waking in Patrick's arms for the first time was the strangest and most satisfying feeling of Shelagh's life. It was late morning judging by the light she could see through her eyelids, and she felt his skin pressed to her bare back. His knee was tucked between her two, his arms wrapped around her and resting on her flesh under the sheets, claiming her as his. Their overlapping limbs confused her for a forgetful moment, but then the sweeping memory of the hours before helped her settle and press herself into his embrace.

Shelagh had never felt so close to God as she did last night with him. How had she ever, ever thought she was not meant to be with this man? She was made to be his wife and he was made to be her husband. Her husband. It felt so right, so perfect to call him that, knowing this was exactly where God wanted them to be; last night had been proof of that.

At first she had been profoundly nervous. Changing from her gown into her grey dress and hat after the wedding was quick but distracting, and she was able to dwell on the details of the ceremony: the look of his face when he saw her the first time, how Patrick could hardly let go of her veil, the softness of his lips finally pressing gently into hers, and even how she had leaned in to prolong their first kiss. There had been things afterwards – congratulations and embraces and loving prayers - but her mind kept returning to the kiss at the altar, and the look of reverence on Patrick's face after they had parted.

The journey to their destination had been the longest of her life, far longer than the arduous trek to the sanatorium just a few months ago. They spoke only of the wedding, laughing and smiling at the things Timothy had said and feeling so loved by all of their friends. Patrick had reached for her hand twice in the car, and she had gladly given it to him. She noticed his disappointment when he had to take his back to shift gears, so when they at last stopped in front of the modest inn where they would spend their honeymoon, Shelagh snatched it back from him and held it to her lips while he sighed and breathed heavy laughter.

"So, Mrs. Turner." The words were so new that they surprised her, and she grinned so widely that she felt her glasses shift on her cheeks.

"So," she repeated to the ring on the hand she still held.

Patrick smiled. "Do you have a bag?"

"It's already in the boot," she said.

"Always prepared, eh Mrs. Turner?"

Shelagh had laughed, knowing how surprised he would be to see how prepared she really was.

"Patrick, I'd quite like to go in now."

His face had flushed with anticipation and surprise and he slid his hand away from hers, eagerly exiting the vehicle in the waning evening light and rushing to open her door. While she waited he retrieved both of their bags and they had walked with linked arms up the steps and into the inn.

Nervousness overcame her suddenly as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. What if she had chosen wrong? Would he be disappointed that she had forgone the traditional lacy nightdress that the midwives had casually suggested? She still had the lingerie she bought tucked away in her bag; was it too late to change? She had taken Chummy's quiet advice and asked Patrick to help her with the zip of her dress - "He'll be wrapped around your little finger, old thing," she'd playfully said. Maybe, Shelagh thought, she should have just shed the dress in front of him instead of retreating to the bathroom to change. Patrick's face _had_ been easy to decipher: he'd wanted her to stay. Perhaps this little joke should have waited for another night. Tonight she wanted to be completely radiant in his eyes; what she now wore made her look more like a small child than a woman just married and about to enjoy her wedding night. Suddenly Shelagh regretted her decision, applying more lipstick to help balance out the girlish feeling that consumed her.

"Shelagh darling? Are you... Is everything all right?" Patrick's voice was hesitant; she could hear his fear even through the door and across the room.

"I'll be just a moment," she called back meekly.

She stared at her reflection. So this was it. "Shelagh Turner," she whispered to the woman peering at her in the glass. The name seemed to bring her back, and its rightness grounded and filled her with certainty. Her husband would not care what she was wearing. Tonight would be about so much more than attire. Shelagh grinned quite uncontrollably, set her glasses on the edge of the sink, and opened the door.

The first thing she saw was the blue stripes. Her eyes had naturally returned to the floor, and the nervous shuffling of his bare feet as he turned to greet her near the foot of the bed brought her attention to his legs, clad in pajama bottoms whose blue striped pattern she knew intimately. The first thing she heard was a noise she could not place. It had a guttural consistency but also sounded like the sighs Patrick had made often in her presence. There was a hint of a word - "oh" - in the noise, and it was only when she allowed her eyes to travel up the length of his body and settle on his face that she felt the need to release a similar sound.

Patrick's eyes were enough to wash away any fear or embarrassment or nervousness she had ever felt for this night. His smile was slight, his eyebrows furrowed as though he could not concentrate on her more fully than he was in this moment. She saw herself in his eyes and felt more beautiful than she ever thought possible.

His fingers twitched at his sides before he gestured to her. "We match."

Shelagh giggled and tugged at the hem of his pajama top, barely concealing her hips and almost certainly revealing more of her than ever before.

"Yes," she whispered as she stepped toward him. She watched his eyes slide hungrily down her body and could feel the heat of his gaze on her bare legs.

Patrick stepped closer. "You look..." He couldn't find the proper words, and ran a hand through his hair to steady himself. Shelagh longed to do this herself, and with a burst of impulsive courage, she walked to him and did so. His eyes closed at her touch until he followed her lead and ran his own hands through her hair, becoming King Midas as gold covered his fingers and slid over his forearms. Unable to resist any longer, Patrick pulled Shelagh forcefully to him, covering her lips with his. This was only their second kiss as husband and wife, and drastically different from their first, but she immediately felt herself open up to him. She could almost hear the sound of her shyness running away. When his tongue pressed to her lips she bade it enter, copying him and devouring him as he clung to her. The kiss went on for ages, waxing and waning as their hands cautiously wandered. When his fingers slid to her hips and grasped the fabric of her shirt, Shelagh finally parted from him and breathed deeply. For a moment she stood there with her eyes closed in his arms, his hands frozen on her body, her own fingers still tangled in his hair.

"Exquisite," Patrick sighed, and her eyes flew open. "You look exquisite," he whispered as his hand returned to her neck, brushing her hair behind her shoulder before tugging the collar of her shirt and kissing the soft flesh where her neck met her shoulder. "You smell exquisite." He breathed in her hair and kissed her neck, slowly leaving a trail of stardust up to her ear. "You taste exquisite." His tongue was darting as he pecked the skin behind her ear. When he kissed her jaw and then her cheek and then the corners of her mouth, Shelagh let out small, uncontrollable whimpers. She had never felt like this, never knew she could feel so adored and worshiped and important.

She had never been so consumed with happiness.

As Patrick's fingers made their way to the buttons of the shirt she had stolen from him, she felt all the walls between them crumble. All the months of waiting and wanting, all the turmoil and illness and questioning, all the upheaval of plans and still more waiting – it all disappeared. Everything had been building up to this day, this night, this life they would be sharing together. She had no more fear, no more heartache. The only thing Shelagh knew was the rightness of his knuckles grazing her sternum and the way he kept leaving kisses on her eyelids and her forehead and her cheeks and her nose. The only thing in the world that was important was the first contact between his hands and her bare back, then the feeling of his chest against hers.

"I love you."

It didn't matter who said it. The words meant so little compared to the warmth of him and the scent of him and the gentleness of him. Words were nothing, they would never be anything compared to this. This is what love truly was, Shelagh thought as she felt herself go weightless in his arms when he lifted her from the floor, and again when he shucked all the stripes that lay between them, and yet again when she gave herself to him completely.

Their first time had been exploratory and somewhat hesitant. The second was passionate and emotional. The third time had become desperate and insistent, exhausting them both to the brink of sleep as the first hint of the impending sunrise peeked through the curtains.

Now, lying beneath Patrick's arms, Shelagh kept her eyes closed. She could feel the sunlight filling the room, could hear the twittering of birds outside. For once in her life she did not care what time she woke or how late she stayed in bed. Right now she just wanted to feel everything, to remember everything forever.

While she dwelt on the weight of his leg laying on hers and the broadness of his hands, Shelagh felt Patrick's breathing change. Where it had been a slow rhythm against her back it evolved to quicker, shorter breaths, until he inhaled deeply and groaned quite uncontrollably in her ear, blowing air down the length of her neck and sending a shiver through her body. The movement caused him to tighten his grip on her, fingers flexing and then settling and holding her firmly to him.

He groaned again. "Good morning," he yawned in her ear.

Her hand slid down his arm to his wrist, entwining her fingers in his. "Good morning indeed." She curled her head to leave a kiss on his knuckles and he gripped her tighter yet before shifting and turning her over to face him. Now she could see the way his hair fell in the morning, and she adored it. She could also see what she had not in the night: that her own lipstick had left an urgent red trail all over his neck and his shoulders. She giggled at the sight and covered her mouth with her hand.

"What's so funny?" His voice was a deep growl that lit a fire straight down her spine.

"You're wearing my lipstick." Shelagh reached over and rubbed one of the marks before he snatched her hand and tucked it between his cheek and the pillow, closing his eyes.

"I had the strangest dream," he laughed.

"Oh?" She wanted to hear about every dream he ever had from now on, and her mind conjured thousands of mornings of waking up just like this and holding each other and him telling her about his dreams.

"Yes. I dreamt I married the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Oh, come now, Patrick –"

His fingers silenced her lips. "I dreamt I married the most beautiful woman in the world." Patrick's hand snaked around her naked waist, anchoring her so he could move closer and she felt all of him press against her. "There was a lovely wedding and a beautiful dress and a cake and a most peculiar boy who would not stop pestering us to stay. I wanted to get her out of there, you see..."

"Really? What for?" She was playing along beautifully, relishing the way his eyebrows rose and fell in his game.

"Well she and I had to go on a trip. Had to see the countryside and become better acquainted with one another." Here he demonstrated his point by sliding his hand to rest on her bare hip while the other brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. She could see he wanted to say more, but let him close the space between them and kiss her soundly. The whole world stopped and melted away once again and it was only the two of them in the sunlight, wrapped together under the sheets.

When they separated Shelagh kept her eyes closed for a long while just to listen to the sound of his breathing. When she finally opened them, his face was close enough to be in focus without her glasses.

"Was there anything else in your dream?" she asked.

Patrick regarded her carefully for a moment before his eyes narrowed and one side of his mouth slanted upward. "Well, since you asked, there was one rather strange part. Completely out of character. Don't know what got into her."

Shelagh waited silently, tormenting him before he pressed on with his farce.

"It seems," Patrick slowly drawled, removing his hands from her skin and rolling to his back before bringing his hands to rest beneath his own head. "It seems she was a thief in a former life who had a weakness for men's pajama tops."

The laugh she emitted was foreign to her, but she could not stop its loudness or its rambling progression.

"I hate to disappoint you, dearest," she growled, rolling to lie half on top of him and resting one hand on his shoulder while the other broke free from beneath the bedclothes. "But that was no dream."

Patrick followed the length of the arm she extended and took in the sight she was pointing to: his reunited pajama set, tangled in a heap on the floor, discarded and forgotten.

His eyes traveled from hers to her hair tickling his chest and the freckles on her neck, and she could read in his features that he was anything but disappointed. "Well, Mrs. Turner, it seems..." his sentence was stopped by her lips, just as they had caught his every time he said her name in that particular way. When she let him finish he was breathless, but couldn't resist.

"It seems dreams do come true after all."


	5. Part 5

"Am I ever going to get that back from you?" he asked three days into their honeymoon. She was seated on the end of the bed with her legs tucked beneath her, nibbling at some food they had ordered hours ago but never touched. His pajama shirt was unbuttoned to the bottom of her ribcage and taunting him with glimpses of her skin.

Three days almost completely in each other's company had unveiled a new and thrilling side of Shelagh that Patrick never could have imagined existed. Before their wedding she was shy and restrained; after she was still tender and lovely, but had a different feel to her fingers and a delightful desperation in her eye. Patrick had been gentle, even hesitant at first. She had surprised him with her attire, but now that he knew this passionate side of his wife, the single pajama shirt had been the most perfect wedding night outfit she could ever have chosen.

Shelagh licked jam from her fingers before stroking the collar of the shirt and responding to him. "No, you are not going to get it back. What's yours is mine, et cetera."

"Well," Patrick sighed as he stretched his arms above his head, "you certainly look better in it than I would have. Though I never did get to find out."

Shelagh looked up inquisitively and asked, "What do you mean?"

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "I must confess, I bought that pajama set a week before Christmas. I'd intended to wear it on Christmas Eve. For you."

He held his breath and waited to see her reaction. In all the joyful nonsense that had followed this silly striped shirt in the last tumultuous months before they could finally wed, he had never mentioned its initial purpose. Shelagh's eyes fell to her hands and she placed the toast she held on the tray beside her. Patrick felt her become very still, and he tensed, stretched out on the bed across from her, ready to kiss away any ill feelings she had. The postponement of their original wedding date was still a tender subject for her. She still felt some irrational guilt for Timothy's illness. And she had always loved Christmas Eve, she told him sometime the past three days. Though she was happy with how everything had turned out - she assured him of this several times in words and small kisses - the thought of marrying on Christmas Eve was romantic, and Patrick was thrilled to learn that his wife was quite the admirer of romance. He watched her turn her left hand so that the fingers of her right could graze the almost undetectable scar on her palm. Did she know she did that when she was nervous? He loved the way she touched it so gently, loved the scar and the fairytale that followed its creation.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" she asked quietly, still looking at her hand.

Attempting to ease her embarrassment, Patrick laughed loudly. "Shelagh, what could I have told you that would not have absolutely scandalized you? I could hardly say that the shirt you were wearing to sleep before we were married was the one I bought to seduce you into my bed."

Shelagh's eyes shot up to meet his and he saw the fire dance behind the rims of her glasses and color rise in her cheeks. "No, you couldn't have said that."

"You would have fainted dead away," he chuckled.

She lifted her chin stubbornly and pursed her lips. "Really, Patrick, that's absurd. I doubt I would have fainted. Though I might have been disappointed if that was all you were giving me for Christmas."

His shock was genuine as he shook his head at his wife. She seemed rather pleased with herself as she bit into the toast again without breaking eye contact. He watched her lips as she chewed, waiting for the right moment to cover them with his and lunging forward on the bed when the time was right. She had expected him and squirmed out of the way, so that where he thought he would meet her mouth his lips found her shoulder and he grabbed the fabric between his teeth. She squealed with laughter and fell to her back, letting him tickle her until she succumbed to his kisses. She tasted of apricot jam and he wanted to devour her. When he let her go and rolled back to the other side of the bed – he knew this would leave her wanting more of him – she smiled and stared at the ceiling.

"On second thought," she sighed, "maybe that's not a bad present at all."

Patrick laughed and leaned against the head of the bed, satisfied with himself until realization struck him and he sat upright again.

"Oh, damn, I completely forgot! I have something I have to give you." He slid to his stomach and reached over the side of the bed, knowingly giving Shelagh a perfect view of the striped pajama bottoms on his backside. He rustled through the bag he had lain on the floor and let out a dramatic "a-ha!" when he extracted a thick envelope and raised it in the air.

Handing it to Shelagh, he shook his head when she said, "We agreed no gifts, Patrick, you promised."

"No, darling, this isn't from me," he kissed her cheek and settled back across from her. "It's from someone else."

Shelagh beamed instantly at his use of the phrase she knew. She turned the envelope over in her hand, reading her own name written in Timothy's precise scrawl. Patrick observed her smile as she removed a large sheet of drawing paper that had been carefully folded. When she opened it and saw the drawing she raised a hand to her mouth. She was frozen like that for a while, and when he saw her eyes sparkle with tears he felt desperate to know what he had just handed her. Timothy had explicitly told Patrick not to open it, that it was a wedding gift for Shelagh. He watched her eyes dance over it until they connected with his. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until she held out the paper to him and he finally exhaled.

Patrick felt his own heart fill.

The drawing was so like the one Timothy had given him to pass on early last year, but the woman who sat across from him now - the woman who had by some divine intervention become his wife - was not wearing a blue habit anymore. Shelagh was depicted with yellow hair and a broad smile and rosy pink cheeks. Timothy had remembered the pattern of one of her dresses and copied it precisely, and even her shoes were recognizable. He felt proud of how his son had improved artistically when he saw the boy's self-portrait, tall and lanky with light brown hair. Patrick touched the paper where Tim had drawn the calipers on his own legs and the tears began to fill his eyes quite against his will. It was when he saw the greatest difference between this drawing and the one Timothy had asked him to give Sister Bernadette that he laughed through the tears that were sliding down his cheeks. Patrick was on her other side, holding the drawn Shelagh's hand just as Timothy was, and grinning in his red jumper with a mop of hair that the artist had drawn with messy black scribbles. They were a perfect trio, and Shelagh was the bridge that bound them together.

When he looked up at Shelagh she had removed her glasses and was dabbing her eyes with one of the long striped pajama sleeves. The smile on her face was everything, and he mirrored it when she scooted toward him to sit within his reach. As he was about to touch her face, tell her how much he loved her and thank her for everything she was to him, to them, to their family, she frowned slightly and stared at the back of the drawing in his hand, tilting her head before taking it from him.

"Oh, Patrick," she murmured from behind the hand that had flown to her mouth once again. The blue of her eyes was drowning in tears and she flipped the page and gave it back to him.

Timothy's handwriting was neat, his spaces concentrated and measured. Even the clarity of his letters could not overshadow the depth of feeling in the words he had written on the back of his family portrait, words that Patrick could not stop himself from reading aloud.

"_'Thank you for saying yes. Love, Timothy._'"

Shelagh snuggled next to him and burrowed her face into his chest. He knew they were both thinking of the words he had written on another piece of paper that had changed their lives so beautifully. For a while they just held each other, staring at the picture and flipping it to read the words over and over. They were both in awe of their life.

"I can't wait to go home," she eventually whispered into the silent room. He tightened his grip around her shoulders. His home was her home now, just as his son was her son and his future was her future. They were connected through everything imaginable, and he stirred a bit before gently pecking her forehead and feeling her lift her face to kiss him back. As the stripes wrapped around his neck and she let all her weight fall on top of him, Patrick lost himself in her softness and the way she was kissing away the joyful tears that still lingered in his eyes. He couldn't wait to go home, either, if that's what she wanted. It didn't matter where they were, he admitted to himself: she would always be his home.


	6. Part 6

"Patrick Turner, put me down this instant!" Shelagh squealed in surprise as she was scooped into her husband's arms from her place on the front doorstep. "You'll hurt yourself!"

"I am not a decrepit old man, madam! I can manage perfectly well with two bags and my wife in my arms." He laughed and she was jostled, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek.

Shelagh blushed and leaned her forehead to his cheek. "You're very romantic."

Patrick beamed at her proudly. "It's all for you, Mrs. Turner. Welcome home."

She felt one of his arms shift and heard the lock of the door click and he carried her over the threshold, spinning until her foot closed the door firmly. Instead of setting her down, Patrick let the bags fall from his hands and his fingers were finally able to grip her back and legs firmly as she leaned forward to kiss him.

"Home," she murmured against his lips.

When her feet were on the floor she looked around with new eyes, taking in every detail of her surroundings. She'd been there so many times before, seen it all, but now everything had changed because she had changed. With a sigh she felt happiness flood her entire being and she said the word again as Patrick snatched her hand and kissed it.

"Home."

"Mmm." He had that eager look in his eye and was pulling her arm to him, and when his lips covered hers again she was helpless in his arms.

"When will Timothy be home?" she managed when his hands roamed to her hips and she stepped back slightly.

Patrick's eyes opened slowly so he could check his watch. "About half an hour. And his grandmother is always on time." He looked agitated by this fact, and she tried to pacify him with a peck on the cheek.

"I think I'll get settled in, then." She reached for the two bags on the floor. "First room on the left?"

He frowned. "If you think you're going up to my bedroom -"

"_Our_ bedroom!"

"To _our_ bedroom for the first time alone, you are seriously mistaken."

Shelagh laughed and offered him the suitcases she held. "Fine, you can do all the work, then."

Ten minutes later they had barely made it to the top of the stairs and had still not entered the bedroom they would share. The bags were on the steps. Shelagh had not protested when she heard them thump to the floor and felt the eagerness of Patrick's hands as they found her middle and pushed her into the bannister. He kissed her neck - his favorite place, she had found - before they made careful conquests of each other's mouths, only walking up five stairs in twice as many minutes.

When she broke away to catch her breath, his hands were dangerously close to the hem of her skirt as he stood on the step below her. "Patrick," she huffed into his hair, "Patrick, Timothy will be home any minute and I wanted to unpack..." He moaned into her bosom and she forced his shoulders away, taking a step backwards and up. "I'm not sure I'll be able to if you come. Will you put the kettle on?"

Speechlessness was not something that came naturally to Patrick Turner, but Shelagh basked in the glow of his devotion and inability to form words in her presence, watching him turn slowly and walk down the stairs with only a tiny groan being able to escape his lips.

Finding the bedroom tidy and bright in the late afternoon sunshine, she set herself to unpacking her bag. Patrick or Timothy had cleared out the right half of the wardrobe for her, and the weathered old suitcase that held the clothes and letters she'd packed from her lodgings and brought to the house sat on the floor. It was dwarfed by the large pink box someone had kindly fetched from the church and deposited next to it. A glance at the empty half of the wardrobe confirmed that all of her worldly possessions would fit neatly inside with room to spare.

She started to remove the contents of her honeymoon bag and was unable to stop the smiles from coming as she remembered Patrick's reaction to each of them. The gray dress she had once thought would be her wedding gown had been met with tenderness, whereas the blue printed one she had tried to wear the next day had been almost torn from her body when she had suggested a day outside the suite. She'd not worn the pencil skirt until today, but she smiled to herself knowing that beneath it was the lacy slip he had eyed hungrily on their third evening. As she placed each thing in the wardrobe - shoes, dresses, a jumper that had not been needed - Shelagh shook her head in bemusement. How had she been so blessed with this life? How had God chosen her to be with this man, hold this man, watch him crumble just at the sight of her legs peeking out from beneath a striped pajama top or a glance...

Shelagh stopped. She looked into the empty bag frantically. Where was the pajama shirt? She was certain she had packed it, but was she mistaken? Had it been left behind in their rush to check out of the inn that morning after Patrick had distracted her with his hands on her waist and his lips on hers? The thought of misplacing it broke her heart; she had intended to wear it tonight for the first evening they would spend together in their home. She rooted through the meager possessions she had unpacked and her heart sank. It was nowhere to be found. Just as she felt her eyes begin to sting with tears Patrick walked into the room carefully balancing two cups and saucers filled with tea.

"Lemon and a dash of milk," he announced with pride, offering her the cup. She just stared at it, overcome with grief for her missing garment, and when her eyes met his, her wonderful husband noticed her distress immediately.

"Shelagh, what's the matter darling?" He set both cups on a table near the bed and wound his arms around her shoulders and pulled her to him until her chin rested in the crook of his neck. "What's wrong?"

"Patrick, I think I've lost the shirt."

He set her away from him and his forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What shirt?"

She tried to smile but could feel her face forming a grimace instead. "The – your – my pajama shirt. I can't find it anywhere. I must have lost it at the inn, it's not in my bag and..."

Shelagh stopped as Patrick squeezed her to him again and his laughter overpowered whatever words she was going to say. He was holding her tightly and she shook with his deep rumbling laugh. She was about to ask what was so funny when she felt his hand on her chin and her face turned upwards before his lips mashed into hers and she forgot she had ever been upset. Would she always feel like this when he kissed her, she wondered? Would the whole world melt away and stars twinkle behind her eyelids and heat boil in her stomach? She hoped so.

When Patrick pulled away she had to take a step back to steady herself. He dropped a tiny kiss on her nose and let her wobble before him.

"Shelagh, you didn't lose the pajama shirt." He said as he leaned down and lifted his own bag from her feet.

"I didn't?"

He turned away from her and opened the bag, pulling out exactly what she had been looking for.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed, running to grab it from him but meeting the barrier of his arm instead as he lifted the pajama top high above his head.

"Now just a moment, Mrs. Turner," he said tauntingly, shaking the thing in the air to tempt her further. "I seem to recall you giving it back to me several times during the last four days. And saying something about "what's mine is yours" hmm?"

Shelagh laughed now, dazzled by the childlike glint in his eye. Oh, how he could look at her in just the right way and break her into a million pieces. She just stood there laughing, clutching the arm that he still held to shield her from the shirt above his head.

"Patrick give it back right this instant," she managed finally. In her attempt to sound firm Shelagh ended up sounding petulant. She watched his eyebrows run high on his forehead in surprise before he lowered both his arms and examined the striped fabric thoughtfully.

"Perhaps we can strike a deal," he said in its direction. "A payment plan."

She wanted to laugh again at his devilishness, but she immediately found herself swept into his arms. The blur of the blue stripes flew past her as they fell onto the bed and bounced, Patrick's arms holding her to him and his fingers hastily strumming her like a harp. She was pinned beneath him and ran her hands up his back and over her shoulders. His own hands were everywhere and it was bliss as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, up and down her throat and over her eyes and under her ears. There were distant whispers of decency and appropriateness running through her mind like molasses; the only coherent thought she had was how much she adored the scent of him and the feel of him and the taste of him. His fingers were pulling the zip of her skirt and pushing under her blouse at her waist until she let out a gasp when a crashing thud met their ears and Patrick lifted his head from her collarbone. Their wide eyes locked.

"Dad? Shelagh! I'm home!" The thunking of adolescent footsteps drifted from the front of the house and as Patrick and Shelagh scrambled to straighten themselves and the bed. They heard Timothy's muffled calls echo in the house until he was at the foot of the stairs once more.

"Dad? Hello, is anyone here?"

Shelagh stepped toward the door and felt Patrick's hand on her wrist. "We're up here, Timothy!"

The slow thunder of the child trying to run up the stairs in his calipers allowed one last dress smoothing before Shelagh was tackled into a hug by her husband's beautiful son. She hadn't realized how much she missed him until she could smell his soap in his hair and feel his arms around her. She embraced him deeply, laid a single long kiss on top of his head and waited a few precious moments until he let go.

"Hi!" He grinned when he pulled back.

"Hello, Timothy," she sang. "We missed you."

The boy looked down as if to remember something. "Granny said to tell you welcome home and that I'm so glad you've come to live with us. She also said to tell you I had missed you, but you were only gone four days, so I told her I wouldn't have to say that."

Shelagh laughed as he made his way to his father and had his hair mussed by the giant hands that were moments ago leaving sparks along her skin. The thought made her blush and she looked for an occupation, scooping the ridiculous pajama top from the floor and folding it before tucking it into the wardrobe with the rest of her things.

"Did you have a good holiday? It rained here almost the whole time you were gone, did it rain there? Dad, you have to come see what Granny got me, it's really the neatest thing you've ever seen." Timothy was tugging Patrick from the room, and she caught a sorry look on his face as he was forced past her.

"In just a moment, Tim, we've only just gotten home ourselves," he was trying to protest, but Timothy had no ears for anything but model airplanes at the moment.

Shelagh smiled, thinking of how lovely it was that they came back to exactly the place they had left, with Timothy vying for their attention. She turned to smooth the bed a bit more, glancing around and digesting the contents of the room she would inhabit for so many nights to come. With a gentle step she crossed to the window and took in the modest view of the unkempt garden, mentally planning all that she could do to brighten it up. She took in the color of the walls and the clean new quilt on the bed, smiling at the way Patrick had arranged his copies of medical journals on a night table and the tip of a sock poking from one of the drawers. There was so much to learn and make hers, and she was so ready for it she thought she might burst. All the right roads in the world would have led her to this very spot in the home of this boy and man whom she loved more dearly than life itself. Her home.

Crossing the room to resettle the rogue sock in his drawer, Shelagh let her hands run on the soft quilt and smiled at its simplicity. Everything made her smile, she admitted, tucking the sock away.

"Shelagh!" She heard Timothy call from below. "Shelagh will you come look at my new model?"

She dreamily gathered herself and called, "Yes, dearest, I'll be right there."

She straightened the stack of medical journals on the table until the pounding of feet ascending the stairs interrupted her train of thought. A presence in the room made her speak over her shoulder.

"I'm coming, Timmy, I was just –"

She was tossed onto the quilt she had just straightened before she caught sight of Patrick. His lips found hers and he urgently kissed her, causing a fire to stir in her middle and her fingers to grip his shoulders by new-found instinct. It was over too fast as he forced himself onto his arms and loomed above her.

"I told Timothy I would fetch you," he breathed. He put his cheek next to hers; she could feel his breath in her ear. "I saw you steal that pajama top when you thought I was distracted, Mrs. Turner," Patrick growled almost inaudibly. "I'll get it back tonight if I have to tear it from your body with my bare hands."

With one last burning kiss he left her half sitting, half lying on the bed, flustered and panting, thrilled for everything and anything that was to come on their first evening at home.


	7. Part 7

Shelagh was going to be so disappointed. He just hoped she wouldn't be angry. They'd had small quarrels here and there, and he had seen her cross, but Patrick was already dreading having to tell her what he had done. He always felt bad when he upset her, always tried to backtrack and make it better, but sometimes that made things worse.

His wife had been trained to forgo attachment to possessions, and even after the denouncement of her religious vows, Shelagh was still unimpressed by worldly things. There was a very select group of material belongings that she found important, and they all had some sort of handmade component: Timothy's drawings, the special paper used to wrap her engagement ring, Patrick's letters. There were brooches she loved to wear and tiny presents Patrick liked to give her, but he knew that they would not be the things she would take with her if they were suddenly forced to flee the house.

But there was one thing that she truly adored, and he knew she would be devastated if it was spoiled in some way. Shelagh had told him how comforting his pajama shirt was to her when he was gone nights. It had been a surprise to both of them how difficult it was for her to sleep alone after their marriage, considering her previous solitary life. When he was out on a late call her thoughts were sometimes eased by the silly pajama top she'd stolen from him, and she would never willingly relinquish it no matter how many times he playfully demanded it back.

He should have been more careful. Admittedly, he was not sleeping well since the appointment with the woman from the adoption agency, thanks to recurring dreams about foggy roads. Shelagh was always in the dream, always on the road with wide crystal eyes. It was when it faded to a misty beach with unintelligible shouts and rumbling and the color red that she disappeared, and the only memory or feeling he had after that was of fear. His terror of losing her would wake him, gasping into the dark. Keen to avoid distressing his wife, Patrick was quickly becoming accustomed to staying awake after the dreams came, in case they returned and gave him away.

Patrick's thoughts were interrupted and his stomach lurched at the sound of the front door opening and two pairs of feet shuffling into the house from the autumn chill. "Dad, we're home!" came Timothy's cheery greeting. He always shouted as soon as he entered, just like his father. "We got out of choir practice early! Dad are you home?"

"Up here," Patrick managed to squeak from the bedroom. He heard a scuffling of feet and Shelagh asking Timothy to wash his hands in the kitchen and turn on the oven so she could start preparing dinner. The boy's tender protests were lost under the sound of her shoes on the stairs.

Shelagh leaned into the doorway of their bedroom. "Greetings, doctor," she cooed with a bashful wink. "I'll be right back and you can say hello properly."

He forced a smile and waited nervously for her to come back from washing her hands. It was a familiar habit that they shared thanks to their professions and vast knowledge of communicable diseases. Timothy was not as receptive to hand washing but they thought that if they nagged him consistently he would eventually succumb to the practice. When Shelagh walked into their bedroom and stood while he remained seated on the bed, she bent and kissed his lips softly. "Hello again," she said.

Patrick felt himself become greedy in his nervousness and grabbed her shoulders, kissing her with more force. Perhaps he could distract her, just keep kissing her all night, and she would never have to know what had happened.

"Well," Shelagh breathed when he finally released her. "That's the loveliest hello I've had all day." Her face was pleased, and he felt her hands squeeze his as she straightened up. "So what have you been up to while we've been out? Did you get any work done?"

"A little."

"Good." She swung his hands and tugged them as she turned toward the door. "Come. I want Timothy to play you the accompaniment for our new piece. It's very advanced and he needs a bit of encouragement, come down and..."

"Shelagh. Darling."

Her head turned toward him, and when her eyes read his pained expression they widened in worry. "Patrick, what's the matter? Did… Did the adoption agency call?" She paled instantly and her hands went cold.

"No, Shelagh, no. Nothing like that."

He lowered his eyes, sorry he had worried her when so much was on her mind. It was hard to look at her for too long when he felt so guilty. "It's just that... I've done something … completely on accident… but I think it might upset you…" There was a slow intake of breath he could not read and he squeezed her hands. He felt their cold unresponsiveness as she waited for him to continue. "I've... I've somehow managed to ruin your – my – your pajama top. The striped one. I don't know how it happened, but I must have left a fountain pen in one of my pockets again and when I went to put away the wash before you got home -" here he paused to see if this effort earned him any favor "- underneath was the shirt and it had this massive, massive black ink stain on it and... and it's totally ruined, darling, I'm so sorry."

As he waited, Patrick kept his eyes on their hands. He knew it was silly, something she could probably brush off in her gentle way, but he still felt ashamed for spoiling something she took so much happiness in. After the recent torturous drama of that agency woman drudging up his military past, he was trying to do everything safely and correctly for her; ruining one of her favorite possessions just added insult to injury and made him feel like an incompetent old fool.

"Nice try, Dr. Turner," she cooed at him with a tilt of her head. "Where are you hiding it this time? You've almost run out of hiding places, you know."

Oh, no. She thought he was kidding. That made it even worse, thinking that he was continuing the game they'd played throughout their marriage where she was forced to retrieve the shirt he had stolen. It was one of her favorite games, though she put up a hilarious front of agitation. Her eyes were already scanning the room for his hiding spot, a smile curling on her lips.

"No, Shelagh, I'm serious. I really ruined it. And it can't be saved. I left it in the basin to soak but that just seemed to draw the ink out of it and make the stain larger…"

"Oh."

From the tone of the single word, Patrick knew she was starting to believe him. He tried to detect what her next words would be – perhaps he could head them off with lamentations and a few distracting kisses – but once again he was unable to look at her.

"I'm so sorry, darling, I should have been more careful," he muttered as he tried to fill the silence. "I don't know what's come over me lately, I can't seem to do anything right. I'm so sorry, I just –"

"Patrick, stop." Her voice was sharp but he could still not bring himself to look at her. When she slid her hands from his he felt his stomach drop. She was upset. For the hundredth time Patrick scolded himself for his carelessness.

"Where is it?" Shelagh said quietly. When Patrick pointed to the hall she knew he meant the bathroom and without another word she walked from the room to inspect the damage he had done.

Waiting seemed an eternity. In his mind's eye Patrick saw his wife stand over the sink with that little crease above her eyebrows and her upper lip curled over the lower. He hoped she wouldn't cry when he saw the awful blue-black splotch covering the front or the cloudy dullness of the dye seeping into the fabric. He was still picturing the sadness in her face when she padded back into the bedroom.

"Well, you certainly made a mess, Patrick," Shelagh said with a pitiful smile. "I didn't know there was so much ink in fountain pens. I don't think I'll be able to save it. Even if I wear it the ink might bleed onto the sheets. But," she said, taking his hands in hers, "I think we will manage. It's just a shirt after all. You've plenty I can borrow."

Patrick frowned. "But it's not just a shirt, Shelagh, it's your favorite and I've ruined it, just as I've ruined –" He could not finish the sentence that would break both of their hearts because her lips stopped his. Her kiss was feather-light, but it was everything to him that she had made him stop. In his worry he had forgotten the truth that had followed them from long before their marriage: Sometimes words got in the way.

"You silly man," she sighed, just inches from his face.

"What?" he asked.

Shelagh placed her hands gently on his face. "You really can be ridiculous, Patrick, honestly." Her smile was intoxicating. "Timmy's right, you know. He says you're brilliant but can be as daft as a ship's cat."

He shook his head at his own idiocy. "The boy is never wrong, is he?"

"Well," Shelagh tilted her head and considered him through squinted eyes. "I have heard him talk about your lack of good looks, but disagree. I think you're rather handsome."

Patrick laughed and combed his fingers through his hair. How had he been so nervous only minutes before? How had he tied his stomach in knots thinking she would be cross with him over something like this? His confidence had been bruised under the weight of all that had come to light when the adoption agents visited. Shelagh was trying so hard to bring him back to her, but he was keeping his distance for fear of hurting her again. But he had forgotten her propensity to forgive.

"I love you," he heard himself whisper.

They didn't say it to each other often – they had always communicated best in silences and glances and touches – but at this moment he had no other words for her but those three. They seemed too small for what he meant, but the way her fingers curled and moved to his face told him that she understood.

There was an unnatural resistance in his joints as she bent down and kissed him more firmly than before. He could feel his body warming to her touch, but his mind was still trapped on some foggy road of unease, waiting for someone to rescue him. Her lips on his were undemanding but wonderful and he felt the fog thin a bit, knowing she was the someone who would guide him back. Maybe not tonight, but someday he would be ready and she would bring him home.

Patrick's arms rose to settle on her waist, and he felt her smile on his lips. She took his touch to be a good sign and placed her hands on top of his.

"There," she said when his eyes met hers. She did not repeat the rest of the words she'd used a year ago when he saw her in the mist, but the devotion in her smile helped him see through the grayness. They'd made a start. He watched her eyes and anchored himself in them, marveling at her beauty and her kindness before she leaned in and kissed him tenderly on his temple.

"Patrick," Shelagh sighed, heating his face. "Don't worry about the shirt. I'll just wear one of my nightgowns tonight." She pecked him on the cheek, stood and turned toward the door before stopping just outside and looking at him cheekily. "Unless you'd prefer I wear nothing at all."

The dazzling light in her eyes was a beacon that helped him see just how easily the fog could lift.


	8. Part 8

The whining coming from the cot in the room at the end of the hall woke Shelagh immediately, as it always did. Her ears were acutely sensitive to every sound Angela ever made, and her waking routine was one Shelagh knew inside and out. She had exactly one minute to dash to the baby's room before she let out a scream that would wake the whole house. Shelagh opened her eyes to the pre-dawn blue haze of the bedroom and carefully wriggled from beneath Patrick's arms and the sheets. The December cold shocked her bare body – her husband had convinced her that last night was as good as their wedding anniversary, and they'd had no need for clothes – and she quickly and silently dressed in the nightgown and robe she had laid out the night before. A quick glance at yesterday's discarded slip on the floor prompted her to scoop it up and lay it on the bed where she had just slept. Shelagh smiled at the thought of Patrick waking to see the shiny fabric lying limply beside him.

"Good morning my sweet girl," she breathed when she placed Angela on her shoulder. The baby squirmed then settled in her mother's arms as soon as she heard her voice. "Let's change your napkin and let the boys sleep a bit more. Would you like to go downstairs to see if Father Christmas brought you anything?" Shelagh took Angela's yawn to be a silent agreement, and she carried her from the room and down the stairs.

Shelagh surveyed the mountain of gifts that sat around the Christmas tree and breathed in the earthy scent of stale pine. There were big and small boxes, long and short, fat and thin, each with a handwritten name tag for one of the four Turners. Timothy's name was most prevalent, of course. Shelagh and Patrick had knowingly gone overboard trying to make up for the previous year when he had spent Christmas in a hospital bed. His abundance of gifts seemed to overshadow the paltry stack bearing his sister's name, but Shelagh glanced at the baby in her arms and cooed at her.

"You don't care how many gifts you have, do you dearest? No, of course you don't," she kissed the button of her daughter's nose and pressed her cheek to the baby's soft face. This was Angela's first Christmas. Still only a few weeks old, Shelagh knew she would not remember it, though she made a solemn vow never to let the child forget what a precious gift she was to their family.

"The perfect Christmas present," she sang down at her. She leaned to place another kiss on Angela's forehead and heard the soft padding of feet descending the stairs. After Patrick tiptoed around the corner he stopped and sank his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. His head and his smile tilted in the same direction.

"There you are: the two most beautiful girls in the world."

Shelagh smiled and did not protest; today she did feel like the most beautiful girl in the world, and the most blessed. When Patrick reached her side and slid his arms about her waist Shelagh turned her cheek in his direction. He laid the lightest of kisses there and rested his forehead on hers.

"Happy Christmas, Shelagh."

She lifted her chin slightly and kissed him. "Happy Christmas, Patrick."

For a moment they stood there, forehead to forehead. Exactly a year ago they had been at Timothy's side in the polio ward of the hospital, attempting to create a jolly Christmas from a terrible turn of events. He was conscious and breathing on his own but desperately fatigued. The few presents they brought him had lain unopened at the foot of his bed until late in the day, and Patrick and Shelagh had opted leave their own gifts at home until Timothy could share in opening them. That had taken several weeks, and by the time Patrick received the jumper Shelagh had purchased for him Spring had sprung and he had no need for it. Shelagh had delighted in the brooch Patrick gave her, though, and that had been enough to gloss over the disappointing Christmas memories.

The what-should-have-beens that she was always reminding Patrick to disregard began flooding Shelagh's mind once more. How different would their lives be now if Timothy hadn't become ill last year, if they had married on Christmas Eve and forgone their honeymoon so they could celebrate Christmas with him? Though he would not have had to endure the illness, Shelagh doubted she and Timothy would share the bond they'd developed back when she kept constant vigil at his bedside and gave him lessons at home afterward. Consequently, she and Patrick may not have grown as close as they now were without that emotional catastrophe. Would the timeline of this year have changed, as well? Would she have found out sooner about her infertility, and would they still be holding Angela between them now, if everything had gone as originally planned? They were thoughts she allowed herself occasionally, but this morning, surrounded by so much simple love and perfection, Shelagh was overcome with wondering.

Her answer came as if whispered by God. No. This and everything that came before was exactly what should have been. All the heartache and all the joys of their life together were perfect.

"Perfect," Shelagh murmured quite by accident.

Patrick's breathy laughter hit her chin as he said, "No, you're perfect. And this is going to be a perfect Christmas. Although," he leaned away and eyed her with a playful frown. "I didn't get to unwrap my present this morning."

Even with Angela between them Patrick dared to tickle her seductively and she knew he was not referring to one of the gifts under the tree.

Shelagh giggled. "I should think you'd have gotten your fill of unwrapping last night," she said.

"Oh, you know me better than that, darling." His thumbs were sliding along the neckline of the nightgown she wore beneath the robe and she let them linger for a moment before wedging the baby between them and into his arms.

"Happy Christmas, Daddy," Shelagh whispered as she watched his eyes twinkle when he took Angela.

"Happy Christmas, baby," he cooed. Angela's eyes widened in vague recognition of her father and he made a ridiculous face attempting to coax a smile from her. When her mouth twitched he laughed and dropped a kiss on her rosy lips. "You, Miss Turner, are entirely too kissable." Shelagh laughed until he leaned toward her. "Just like your mummy."

Shelagh returned the kiss he gave her with quiet zeal. The emotions of the moment overwhelmed her – the two of them, a year after they were once intended to be married, holding their infant daughter between them and ready to celebrate their first real Christmas together – and she wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing the baby gently between their chests. She continued to kiss him, completely undaunted by the sudden thunder of footsteps above them that traveled down the stairs and into the room.

"Merry Chri- Oh no, are you two at it again? Can't you save it for the mistletoe?" Timothy's exasperation tore them apart and they laughed.

Patrick took Angela's tiny hand and waved it in her brother's direction. "Happy Christmas, Timmy!" he chimed in a faux baby voice.

Timothy came to touch Angela's head, tickled her feet and kissed her cheek. "Happy Christmas, Angie. Thanks for not waking me up too early." Shelagh watched his eyes scurry to the stack of gifts on the floor and then to her own eyes. "Happy Christmas, Mum," he smiled. When she grinned back at him he crossed to her and hugged her fiercely and placed a short kiss on her cheek before he stepped away and glanced at the tree again.

"Oh, that doesn't seem fair," Patrick cried petulantly. "Not even a 'good morning' for your old dad but Mum and Angie both get kisses?"

Timothy rolled his eyes and said, "Dad, I've had loads of Christmases with you, but it's the first time with them."

Shelagh laughed when Patrick shrugged dramatically. "That's not an entirely satisfactory reason, but it'll have to do. So, are you going to open your gifts, Tim? Or should we give them all to your sister?"

"No!" Timothy shouted and fell to his knees, snatching the first thing he saw with his name on it.

Two hours later the floor of the room was buried under torn wrapping paper and Christmas gifts. They had all eaten an enormous breakfast and were still in their pajamas and dressing gowns. Timothy was wearing a paper crown and was thrilled with everything he received, including a cricket bat and new slides for his microscope. There were airplanes and building toys and items of clothing strewn around the room, but for once the mess did not bother Shelagh. She was content to watch her family delight in the magic of Christmas. Patrick was rocking Angela but trying to be part of Timothy's activity too, interjecting as the boy attempted a complicated new model. The baby was asleep on his shoulder from the morning's hustle and bustle.

Shelagh walked across the room and placed a hand on Patrick's shoulder. When he looked up he saw her wide smile and winked at her. "I can take her upstairs, if you want to play with airplanes, Dad," she offered.

Patrick's examined her quietly before narrowing his eyes with a crooked smile. She could see he was hiding something. Or remembering something.

"Actually, I think I'll help you," he said as he rose from the floor, careful not to disturb the sleeping baby. "I'll be right back, Tim, I'm going to help Mum put Angela to bed. See if you can find where that propeller goes, I'm sure the instructions must be wrong."

Timothy looked at Shelagh. "_That's_ why he can never finish a model without my help. He doesn't believe in instructions."

His parents laughed as they made their way through the hall and up the stairs. Shelagh didn't know what Patrick had planned – the glint she'd just seen in his eye told her this was anything but a helpful trip to send Angela to bed – but she was glad he was coming. She had one last gift to give him that she had not put under the tree, instead carefully hiding the box under some old jumpers on her side of their wardrobe. The plan was to give it to him later, but when she thought about his reaction – and his guaranteed agony for the rest of the day – Shelagh revised her strategy.

"Wait here," Patrick whispered when they stood in front of their bedroom. "I have something for you." He winked at her again and walked to Angela's room.

Shelagh went into their bedroom, slightly perplexed. She thought she would be the one surprising him with a secret Christmas gift, but was fooled in her own game. When she went to the wardrobe to extract the box for Patrick, Shelagh heard the familiar squeak of the hall cupboard and the soft _fa-flump_ of linens falling to the floor.

"Ruddy cupboard," Patrick muttered, and Shelagh could clearly picture him stooping to pick up the sheets and stuffing them into the cupboard without bothering to fold them.

When he came into their bedroom Shelagh was sitting on the end of the bed waiting, a red-papered parcel sitting on her lap.

"You little sneak!" Patrick laughed, jiggling the box in his own hand. "I thought you were done with Christmas gifts for the day!"

Shelagh pursed her lips. "I thought _you_ were done with gifts for the day. Honestly, Patrick, there's nothing else I need, you shouldn't spoil me so."

"I'm only returning the favor, Shelagh," he laughed as he sat beside her on the bed. Clearly she had thwarted whatever surprise he had planned, but she loved him for trying anyway and kissed his cheek to tell him so. The peck was not enough for Patrick, however, and she was soon caught up in his arms and they rolled backwards onto the bed, both the packages sliding from their laps and landing on the floor. This was what she had been hoping for, Shelagh admitted to herself: being in Patrick's arms was the only other gift she wanted today, and he was not disappointing her. They were quiet so they would not disturb the children, but Shelagh found it increasingly difficult to stay silent when he was kissing her neck like that and his hand was gripping her hip so firmly. Her own hands slid to his waist and untied his dressing gown so they could slide under his shirt and feel his chest and sides. She was content to let him kiss her like this for the remainder of the morning, lying side-by-side, lost in their love for each other and promising everything to each other with every touch. But even the way his unshaven face was scratching her lips and the way his tongue was plundering her mouth and the way his fingers scalded the skin of her thighs – even those things were not enough to distract her from Timothy being downstairs and wanting to play with his father on Christmas morning. Best to stop now before they went any further and he came looking for them.

The bed squeaked as Shelagh broke contact with him and sat up again. Patrick remained on his side until he removed his hand from the inside of her dressing gown where it still rested. When he sat up he returned her glasses to her face – when had those come off? – and sighed painfully.

Shelagh leaned down and retrieved the red box from the floor and set it on his lap. "This is for you. From me."

Patrick grinned and followed suit, handing her the package he had wrapped and tied with a ribbon. "And this is for you, my dear. To make up for last Christmas. And… everything." Shelagh watched him look down bashfully and toy with the corner of the box in his hands. How desperately she loved this man, she thought.

"You go first." Patrick suggested with a wink. Shelagh nodded. This was exactly what she wanted, knowing how her gift to him would make him laugh and embrace her. As Patrick watched she tore back the paper and slid a hand beneath the lid before setting it aside. She lifted the white tissue paper from the box and stopped suddenly when her eyes took in the blue stripes of a new pajama shirt like the one that had been ruined a few short months ago.

"Patrick!" she cried, completely dumbfounded.

He threw his head back and laughed at her reaction. She loved his laugh, and this morning the hair on his forehead bounced and the scruffy beginnings of a beard that appeared overnight made him look so happy and comfortable. Oh, how she loved him.

"I had to place a special order. It's been a year, after all. They didn't have the same pattern anymore," he explained proudly.

Shelagh held the shirt up to her front and felt the familiar fabric. His eyes overwhelmed her and she saw devotion in all his features. With the shirt still draped over her, Shelagh launched herself into his arms and kissed him. She felt the sharp edge of his unopened gift cut into her ribcage but ignored it. She needed desperately to tell him how perfect he was and how in tune they were, and the only proper way was to kiss him. Patrick accepted her gratitude with his own fervor, laughing as she tickled him with tiny pecks all over his face, trailing thanks down his forehead and nose and chin. She could feel the muscles of his smile and taste his unshaven skin on her lips. Her arms were wrapped around his neck so that when she sat back the ridiculous shirt laid on his torso, like her embrace had forced its mark on him.

"Now," Shelagh grinned, "it's your turn."

Patrick's eyes narrowed and his smile slanted in the way she knew and loved. "Are you sure you're finished thanking me? I can wait."

"Quite sure," Shelagh laughed, touching the box in his hands impatiently. "Your turn."

He followed the same routine she had and crumpled the torn paper eagerly in his hands. As he unwrapped it he kept glancing at Shelagh, and she held her breath in anticipation. When he lifted the lid from the box Patrick froze. Then he snapped his head up and stared at her with wide eyes.

"Shelagh!" he howled, extracting a pajama shirt identical to the one she had just received and holding it in front of his face in bewilderment. "Shelagh, you sorceress! How – where did you find it? I never told you where I bought it!"

She smiled smugly and folded her legs beneath her on the bed. "There are some advantages to taking over the family bookkeeping, dear. I found the sales slip months ago and kept it in case I ever needed to find another. Whenever did you find the time to go to Harrods, Patrick?"

Patrick's surprise was plainly heard in the great sounds of his laughter as he fiercely pulled her into his arms. "You are a wonder, my perfect, perfect wife." He sank his face into her neck and she grasped him back, doubting she could ever love him more but knowing that she would. She loved the way his teeth nipped at her earlobe and the sound of his huffing breath in her ear. She loved his hands and his shoulders and his neck, loved the way he could touch her in any way and make her feel more beautiful than ever before. She loved the way he loved her, completely and unrelentingly, like she was the only thing in his life that mattered. Shelagh let him kiss her for as long as he wanted, until at last his head separated from hers and her eyes fluttered open. He was staring at her so fiercely that she felt a blush creep to her cheeks and buried her face in his dressing gown.

"Shelagh," he whispered. She could hear the emotion in just the single word. What bliss it was to be able to hear it as she had once imagined, and be blessed with the honor of hearing it for the rest of her life.

"Shelagh," he repeated, shifting her away from his chest so she could look him in the eye. "You're the most wonderful gift I've ever been given. I could live the rest of my life without a single thing if I have you."

"You have me, Patrick, you'll always have me," she said, tears forcing their way into her eyes and blurring his face.

He put his forehead to hers as he had earlier that morning. The silence that surrounded them spoke of everything that needed to be said and ever had been said. It sang to them of stolen glances and stolen kisses, of heartache and waiting and wanting. It reminded them of letters and views from windows and mist and right roads. It blanketed them in comfort of healed wounds and forgiveness and the blessing of family. The silence spoke of everything: their past, present, and future. As Shelagh felt happy tears travel down her cheeks, she couldn't be more certain that Patrick was right: their life together was the greatest gift that they could ever be given.


End file.
